One-Thumb Watergun

“Dear Diary, let me tell you another story of where I left my Pawprints…”

The week before the watergun date, Bumbly’s apartment smelled like warm plastic and determination.

Not the dramatic kind—no speeches, no montage music—just the soft hum of his charger, a tidy work surface cleared on purpose, and a brightly colored watergun sitting there like it had wandered into the wrong genre of adulthood.

Because Bumbly had a problem to solve.

Pausy’s kids were eight and one: one old enough to aim for maximum chaos, one young enough to treat anything with buttons as destiny. If Bumbly showed up with a regular watergun, he’d be a sitting duck. His chair could move fast enough to dodge a little, sure, but not without trading control. And trading control—especially around kids and grass and slippery corners—wasn’t a fun gamble.

So he did what he always did when life demanded a new shape: he engineered it.

He spent evenings adapting the watergun so it could mount to his chair and fire with one thumb, while his other thumb stayed free to drive. He tested angles like he was calibrating a satellite dish—up a little, left a little, not directly into anyone’s eyes because this wasn’t a war crime. He made the trigger action lighter, then safer, then lighter again. He built a simple bracket that wouldn’t wobble when the chair rolled over uneven paving stones.

On the last night, he gave it a final check: brakes, mount, aim, and a tiny click-switch he could tap without looking.

It wasn’t just a gadget.

It was dignity with a squirt range.

By the time Sunday arrived, the sky had that early-summer brightness that made everything feel possible and slightly sticky. Pausy’s backyard smelled like sun-heated grass and bubble solution. The air shimmered with kid energy—fast, loud, unfiltered.

Her 8-year-old spotted Bumbly’s setup before Bumbly even finished rolling onto the patio mat.

“WOAH.”

The one-year-old made a delighted noise that sounded like a tiny siren.

Pausy stood at the edge of it all, half-smiling, cardigan sleeves pushed up, trying not to look nervous. Bumbly could read it on her: the fear of things going wrong was always parked nearby, even when she wanted joy.

Bumbly locked his brakes with a quiet snap and lifted his chin like a captain about to address a crew.

“Okay,” he said, very seriously. “I have upgraded.”

The eight-year-old circled the chair like it was a spaceship. “Is it… attached?”

Bumbly’s eyes glittered. “It’s mounted.”

That word—mounted—made it sound heroic, which was exactly the point.

The first shot didn’t come from Bumbly.

It came from the kid.

A cold splash smacked Bumbly’s cheek and startled a yelp out of him—loud and theatrical, like he’d been hit by a tidal wave. The eight-year-old shrieked with triumph. The one-year-old clapped like Bumbly had just performed magic.

Pausy’s laugh burst out before she could stop it—big and real and slightly shocked, like her body had forgotten it was allowed to make that sound.

Bumbly waited one dramatic beat.

Then he tapped the switch with his left thumb.

The mounted watergun chirped to life with a bright, ridiculous stream. He kept his right thumb steady on the joystick and pivoted with careful control—smooth, safe, deliberate. The water arced across the yard and tagged the eight-year-old right in the shoulder.

A stunned pause.

Then the kid howled, “NO FAIR!”

Bumbly’s grin went wide. “Extremely fair.”

The eight-year-old launched a counterattack. Bumbly rolled a tight turn, chair humming, one thumb driving, one thumb firing—his own kind of choreography. He didn’t win by speed. He won by planning.

Pausy watched the whole thing like she was witnessing a small miracle she didn’t want to name. Not because Bumbly was “overcoming” anything. But because he was included. Competent. Dangerous in the most playful way.

And then—because life loved timing—Bumbly “accidentally” soaked Pausy’s cardigan sleeve.

It was a gentle hit. A teasing hit.

Pausy gasped like betrayal and stared at the damp fabric as if it had personally insulted her.

The kids went silent, waiting to see which adult emotion would take the stage: irritation, shutdown, lecture.

Instead, Pausy’s mouth twitched.

She walked to the patio table.

She picked up her own watergun.

Bumbly’s heart gave a small, startled thump—not romance, not fireworks—something simpler and rarer:

permission.

Pausy raised the watergun like a reluctant warrior finally choosing the battle.

Bumbly lifted his mounted cannon in salute.

The next thirty seconds were pure, undignified joy.

Pausy chased the eight-year-old in a half-run, half-laugh, squealing when she got hit back. The one-year-old toddled after them like a tiny referee, hands outstretched, occasionally slapping Bumbly’s wheel in excitement. At one point, the eight-year-old slapped a muddy hand onto the bracket to “help aim”—leaving a small, perfect pawprint smudge right on the mount.

Bumbly noticed it mid-chaos and felt his chest soften.

A pawprint.

Proof that someone had touched his world without fear.

Later, when the kids were wrung out and snack-sticky, the yard settled into a quieter golden light. Pausy stood close to Bumbly’s chair, cardigan sleeve still damp, cheeks flushed from laughing.

She looked at the mounted watergun and then at him.

“You really did all that,” she said, voice low.

Bumbly shrugged as if it wasn’t a whole week of effort. “I didn’t want to be a sitting duck.”

Pausy’s smile warmed. “You weren’t.”

For a moment, her worry wasn’t gone—but it wasn’t in charge either.

Bumbly rolled back toward the gate with the sun on his fur and the pawprint on his bracket.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t just visiting someone’s life.

He was playing in it.